


Live For Your Brothers

by Shrapnel



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 05:45:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3798958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shrapnel/pseuds/Shrapnel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos and Porthos stand before three fresh graves.<br/>No spoilers for season 2 as I haven't watched it yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live For Your Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I had on the way home from work, but then forgot about til 5 hours later and typed up in about an hour, so apologies if there's grammer or spelling issues, I only did one re-read. I did make myself tear up while writing though, so I'm sorry in advance. Kudo's and comments welcome, this is the first story I've released to the public in about 4 years probably, so be gentle.

Athos stood at Porthos shoulder, staring with unfocused eyes at the three fresh graves in front of his brother. Rain poured down and soaked the ground that Porthos kneeled in, running down his face and disguising the tears upon it. Athos paid no attention to the rain, his body having become so numb to everything around him except for the ache in his chest, his mind still in shock from the past few days.

He unconsciously laid his hand upon Porthos' shoulder as the large man wailed at the sky, despairing at the loss of his brothers. Porthos ignored him, didn't even acknowledge the weight placed upon him. He fell forward onto all fours, falling out of reach of Athos hand, and let his fingers squish into the mud at the base of two of the graves.

Athos's eyes roamed up to the temporary headstones, reading the names upon the two graves over and over again, mind still in shock, he had never allowed himself to imagine what a day like this would feel like.

So much of the past few years had been devoted to keeping himself from thinking of the past, unfortunately his technique also dulled thoughts of what was to come. His life experience in the service of the king and his drinking habits had made his family losses feel so distant and he had forgotten what it was like to lose those you considered family. But he had experienced it none the less.

Porthos had not experienced the loss of biological family, as far as he could remember anyway, so this pain was a fresh hell for him. He had lost friends in the Court, to disease, infections, and wounds, but life in poverty and filth was often cut short. It created a very different sort of bond than the one forged with the men in the graves he now kneeled at, even young D'Artagnan, with his comparatively short time he spent with the Musketeers.

Athos flicked his eyes to the third grave, thinking of D'Artagnan and his love Constance.

 _I'm so sorry Constance_ , he thought to himself. _I should've never allowed you or D'Artagnan to get involved._

His heart ached for the young love that could only be found in eternity now, if there was such a thing beyond and was kind enough to allow friends and lovers to unite after death. Even with his uncertainty of the existence of a god, he sincerely hoped there was such a place beyond death, that he may once again see his brothers and their lovers together in happiness. He doubted even in death he would be able to forgive Milady, but mayhaps that young girl from his teenage years, so fair and beautiful before small pox had taken her early, will be there. To be honest he couldn't even pin point who exactly Aramis would rather have at his side in the great beyond, the man had fallen for so many women.

Athos cracked a sad smile, thinking of that day that felt so long ago when he and Porthos had come across Aramis hanging from a window sill. The very day they all met D'Artagnan. His smile faltered as his eyes shifted to the lads grave once again.

Porthos had sat up again, his head hanging to his chest and shoulders slumped, occasionally shaking as he silently sobbed. The rain had stopped at some point, the clouds stubbornly sticking around, leaving the country side in greyness. Athos could hear foot steps approaching, swishing through the sodden grass up the small hill to the graves. He squatted down and tilted his head so he could look into Porthos' face, placing his hand upon the big mans shoulder again, taking the opportunity to talk before their privacy was broken.

"I am very sorry, my dear friend. But I believe it is time for us to go. Please do not dwell, it only makes continuing with life harder. Some days will be easier than others. Some will be so difficult you won't be able to bear the thought of living any longer. But please do not entertain those thoughts. Live for your brothers."

A fair hand gently perched upon the dark leather covering Porthos' shoulder, alighting as gently as a bird so to not startle the grieving man. He whirled around, bloodshot brown eyes making contact with tear filled green ones. He pulled her in for a tight hug, releasing her as she winced in pain, hand going for the bandage still covering her shoulder.

"My apologies, I did not mean to jarr you. I am happy to see you up and about again."

"I am happy to be up again, thank you, and pleased to see you are alright."  
He rub his bandana over his face, clearing the tears and rain.

"I am unscathed, but the cost was too much. I would much rather have taken that musket ball. D'Artagnan should be the one sitting here with you." His eyes started to water again as he looked back up at Constance.

She placed her hand on his shoulder again, the physical contact as much a comfort for her as for him.

Athos was still where he was half kneeling next to Porthos, his eyes locked on the spot where his hand came in contact with the dark mans leathers. Constance' hand was in the same spot, though she acted as though he wasn't even present. Her fingers arched gracefully along the seams of Porthos jacket and pauldron, intersecting with Athos' own fingers. It came to him then that he couldn't feel the warmth of her hand or the cold of the rain.

It shouldn't have shocked him so much, he remembered all the events that unfolded, the pain of the musket ball tearing through his chest, laying in the middle of the field, choking on his own blood as he watched each of his friends fall. Aramis with the sword through his back as he aimed to take out a rifleman across the field, that same rifleman bringing Porthos into his sights and D'Artagnan jumping in the way, to take the ball right in the heart, killing him instantly.

He saw Constance, poor innocent Constance, only there as a distraction, something she swore she was ok with, having done it before, getting a small dagger high in the right side of her chest. Porthos had made short work of the remaining men, fuelled by rage and despair.

Constance had gathered herself up and made it to D’Artagnan, Athos could tell from where he lay that the boy was already gone, even before Constance had begun wailing over him.

Porthos had gone to Aramis first, and roared into the sky when he failed to find a pulse or breath, perhaps for the better as the sword had pierced clear through his spine, it would’ve been impossible for him to walk again had he survived.

A particularly wet cough from Athos had summoned Porthos attention, the larger man charging across the clearing and quickly gathering him into his arms, squeezing him tightly as though to contain Athos’ life force within his body. A couple of shaky wet inhales later and Athos had died in his arms, Porthos’ tears dripping onto his pale face.

Athos was distracted from those awful memories when Constance walked forward to kneel next to D’Artagnan’s grave marker, placing a small bouquet of wild flowers next to it. Athos looked back at Porthos, his hand still upon his shoulder. He gently reached up and tousled the curly hair upon his hair, though the living Musketeer did not react to the contact.

He stood again, looking around at his surroundings. Aramis lay on his side in the grass a few feet away, pulling at his moustache and staring at Porthos, as though committing the mans face to his memory, even though he knew it so well from their years of service together.

D’Artagnan was seated cross legged next to Constance, a somber look on his face as he stared at hers, much the same as Aramis was with Porthos. He looked down at the bouquet of wild flowers and a sad smile broke across his face, a half laugh half sob ripping its way out of his throat. Athos had no idea what that was about, perhaps the flowers reminded him of one of their outings.

Athos slowly turned in a circle, taking in the forest around the base of the hill, the smoke trails in the sky from the nearby village that he couldn’t remember the name of. It didn’t matter, it wouldn’t be a village he would ever visit again. Read over the grave markers again. D’Artagnan, Aramis, Athos. Simple, but they were only temporary.

He looked down at Porthos once again, and then to Aramis and D’Artagnan, who were watching him. Even in death they were waiting for his leadership. He unnecessarily cleared his throat and spoke to Porthos again.

“Live for us, brother. One for all.”

“All for one.” Aramis and D’Artagnan chimed back as they released their hold and let themselves be taken into the light encroaching on them. Even though there was no way Porthos could’ve heard him, Athos almost swore he heard Porthos speaking with them as he closed his eyes and let go.

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to make you readers think that the third grave was Constance's, not Athos', did that work, or did you figure out what was going on? Let me know in the comments!


End file.
